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    Red Knife: A Cork O'Connor Mystery
    Red Knife: A Cork O'Connor Mystery
    Red Knife: A Cork O'Connor Mystery
    Ebook386 pages6 hours

    Red Knife: A Cork O'Connor Mystery

    By William Kent Krueger

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    Private investigator Cork O’Connor finds himself caught in the middle of a racial gang war that’s turning picturesque Tamarack County, Minnesota, into a battlefield.

    When the daughter of a powerful businessman dies as a result of her meth addiction, her father, strong-willed and brutal Buck Reinhardt, vows revenge. His target is the Red Boyz, a gang of Ojibwe youths accused of supplying the girl’s fatal drug dose. When the head of the Red Boyz and his wife are murdered in a way that suggests execution, the Ojibwe gang mobilizes, and the citizens of Tamarack County brace themselves for war, white against red.

    Both sides look to Cork O’Connor, a man of mixed heritage, to uncover the truth behind the murders. A former sheriff, Cork has lived, fought, and nearly died to keep the small-town streets and his family safe from harm. He knows that violence is never a virtue, but he believes that it’s sometimes a necessary response to the evil that men do. Racing to find answers before the bloodshed spreads, Cork himself becomes involved in the darkest of deeds. As the unspeakable unfolds in the remote and beautiful place he calls home, Cork is forced to confront the horrific truth: violence is a beast that cannot be contained.

    In Red Knife, Krueger gives his readers a vivid picture of racial conflict in small-town America, as well as a sensitive look at the secrets we keep from even those closest to us and the destructive nature of all that is left unsaid between fathers and sons, husbands and wives, friends and lovers.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAtria Books
    Release dateSep 3, 2008
    ISBN9781416580218
    Red Knife: A Cork O'Connor Mystery
    Author

    William Kent Krueger

    William Kent Krueger is the New York Times bestselling author of The River We Remember, This Tender Land, Ordinary Grace (winner of the Edgar Award for best novel), and the original audio novella The Levee, as well as nineteen acclaimed books in the Cork O’Connor mystery series, including Lightning Strike and Fox Creek. He lives in the Twin Cities with his family. Learn more at WilliamKentKrueger.com.

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    Reviews for Red Knife

    4/5

    225 ratings15 reviews

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    • 3/5
      Although I enjoyed this book as I usually do Krueger's books, it didn't seem quite so good as some of his others. The murder plot seemed to be resolved without any suspense and little action, which confused me until the end scene of the book. I kind of wish the author had included this as a completely separate story idea more fully expanded in a separate book. Still, Krueger is one of my favorite crime fiction authors, and that won't be changing any time soon.
    • 4/5
      This is another in the series telling of the life of Cork O'Conner and those in his family and community. The story deals with many issues that face us in everyday life: drugs, gangs, tentions among the citizens and family relationships. Krueger has a way of drawing the reader into the story with the mysteries of the story and the lore of the Indian way of life. I did not think this was as good as his other books that I have read, but still it was well worth reading.
    • 4/5
      Another satisfying book in the Cork O'Connor series by William Kent Kreuger. It had been a while since I read one of his books, but it felt like being with an old friend. I really enjoy the characters and the small town dynamics that we read in this series. The mix of old and new, Native American and white - creates an environment that lends itself to great storytelling. This particular mystery was similar to the others in the series in terms of there being enough twists and turns that you never truly know how things will turn out. Highly recommended series.
    • 4/5
      Another good entry in an excellent series. As the man in the middle, Cork continues to resolve problems that involve "the People"
    • 4/5
      Difficult to get into the book, although it started with a lot of action. Had trouble following who was who. Many characters had several names for same person. Perseverance paid off as the setting helped plant the people in their character's role.

      Good who-done-it, with many side plots and twists that didn't give the obvious solution.

      Presented family values that tied into plot.

      Krueger's chapter endings always left one to think.

      Did great job at solving all loose ends and side problems without hurrying to complete it, but certainly not dragging it out.


    • 4/5
      A murder mystery with lots more going on, this book deals with family, loyalty, violence, alienation, and race, all while being a page-turner.
    • 5/5
      The Cork O'Connor mysteries are always consistently very good. But, this one seems the best so far. There are lots of twists and the book was very hard to put down. The plot was well-structured and the story was told well. I highly recommend this series but they should be read in order as the stories build one upon the other.
    • 2/5
      Deciding upon a rating for this book gave me pause. I did not enjoy the first 3/4 of this book, and had to force myself to slog through it -- a first for a WKK novel. On the other hand, the final few scenes were perhaps the most powerful WKK has written.

      As he did with the last Cork O'Connor novel, WKK again digs into his bag of literary tricks. At one point he switches from past tense -- the standard for Cork O'Connor novels -- to present tense. My initial reaction to this change was to shrug it off as a silly gimmick. As I continued to turn the pages, however, I recognized that WKK's choice in this regard truly served to leave a powerful impression with his readers -- this reader included. It was a memorable scene that I won't soon forget.

      That said, I can't forgive this book for the snore-inducing events that led to the grand finale, especially given that the final scene is only loosely connected to story's primary thread.
    • 5/5
      William Kent Kreuger's mystery series featuring Cork O'Connor seemed, in my mind, to start out relatively slowly. I felt that it wasn't until his fourth or fifth book that he really hit his stride. I'm very thankful that I had bought up his complete series before beginning to read them (based on an enthusiastic review I read of a later book).. otherwise I might have given up on the series early on and missed some really great stories. And in hindsight even the early books have a great deal to offer. The novels are set in rural, northern Minnesota for the most part with the action shifting to The U.P. of Michigan in one story and to Wyoming in another. Mr. Kreuger gives Cork O'Connor a family life that is anything but 'storybook'. From one end to the other this is a loving, but modern family, with real life modern problems that they do manage to get resolved. Fairly early in the series, the stories begin increasingly encompassing Cork's and his family's Native American connection to good advantage!This is a very good and satisfying series which I gobbled up faster and faster towards the end. Now I have to sit and eagerly await the next Cork O'Connor adventure. This is a series where the books could be read as stand alones, but for maximum enjoyment I would strongly recommend reading them in the order that they were written.
    • 2/5
      Another installment of the Cork O'Connor series involving local issues relating to gang violence, drug dealing and local tensions. This was by far my least favorite of the Cork O'Connor series, I only stuck with it simply because I had read all of the others and wanted to continue. I became bored with Krueger's writing, trying to make Cork seem like an every-man while doing such outlandish and excellent crime fighting. Simple references to Cork scratching himself after taking a run and the like were not necessary. The book was interesting to read about the tensions of local tribes and gang violence, but Cork just didn't do it for me. I'm not sure if I will continue with the series or not - I was slightly disappointed.
    • 3/5
      Ok , not good enough for me to go forward with any of his other books
    • 5/5
      I really enjoyed this installment. Racial tensions between the reservation and the town are growing, and Cork is caught in between. A school shooting impacts Annie, and the community.
    • 5/5
      Shootings by crazy teenagers have become too much a part of the world that we inhabit. It may be a fact of life but it drags at me to see it show up in a story. It is told quite effectively. Krueger’s books are at one level all about the complex dynamics of interpersonal relationships. He expresses those conflicts clearly and engagingly. I a glad to have discovered his books and will keep at them. Many of the usual cast of characters as well as some new participants show up. The complex dynamic between Indian/native American remains central to the story and to my ear is carried off very well.
    • 4/5
      I like this character, Cork O'Connor. A former law officerr, he now runs a hamburger joint and works part time as a private investigator. As he struggles to balance home life with a wife and children, he also struggles with being part white and part Ojibwe and at times finds himself conflicted by this twin cultural heritage. It makes for interesting plot interactions. In this edition he is investigating the death of two prominent reservation leaders and trying to stave off a conflict between white and Native Americans. All the while trying to help his daughter through crisis and discover who is behind multiple murders that all seem to be tied together. The plot is well done with several side plots that help keep the story moving. Krueger always has great characters and this one is no exception. This has been a great series to this point and the books continue to keep me coming back for more.
    • 4/5
      Digital audiobook performed by David Chandler3.5*** From the book jacket: When the drug-related death of a powerful businessman’s daughter is followed by the execution-style murder of the head of an Ojibwe gang known as the Red Boyz, the citizens of Tamarack County brace themselves for war. Former sheriff Cork O’Connor, a man of mixed heritage, tries to mediate the feud. … Cork must confront a horrific truth: violence is a beast that cannot be contained. My reactions:This is book # 8 in the Cork O’Connor series, though I’m reading it out of order. Cork is a marvelous central character. He’s a family man and the heavy influx of drugs is hitting close to home for him. His seventeen-year-old daughter, Annie, is just a year younger than the dead girl. Annie will help Cork understand some of the dynamics of teen life in Tamarack County. I also really like Sheriff Dross – a woman Cork hired some years back when HE was sheriff. She’s determined, dedicated and a keen observer. The plot deals with vigilantism, gun control, disaffected teens, drug cartels and family dynamics. Krueger writes a fast-paced, intricate mystery with plenty of suspects, and enough twists and turns to keep even the most diligent reader guessing.

    Book preview

    Red Knife - William Kent Krueger

    ONE

    The words on the note folded around the check in his wallet read: Here’s $500. A retainer. I need your help. See me today. The note and the money were from Alexander Kingbird, although it was signed Kakaik, which was the name of an Ojibwe war chief. It meant Hawk.

    Five hundred dollars was a pretty sound enticement, but Cork O’Connor would have gone for nothing, just to satisfy his curiosity. Although the note didn’t mention Kingbird’s situation, it was easy to read between the lines. In Tamarack County, unless you were stupid or dead you knew that Alexander Kingbird and the Red Boyz were in trouble. How exactly, Cork wondered, did Kingbird think he could help?

    Kingbird and his wife, Rayette, lived on the Iron Lake Reservation. Their home was a nice prefab, constructed to look like a log cabin and set back a hundred yards off the road, behind a stand of red pines. A narrow gravel lane cut straight through the trees to the house. As Cork drove up, his headlights swung across a shiny black Silverado parked in front. He knew it belonged to Tom Blessing, Kingbird’s second-in-command. It was Blessing who’d delivered the note that afternoon.

    And it was Blessing who opened the door when Cork knocked.

    About time, Blessing said.

    He wasn’t much more than a kid, twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. Long black hair falling freely down his back. Tall, lean, tense. He reminded Cork of a sapling that in the old days might have been used for a rabbit snare: delicately balanced, ready to snap.

    The note said today. It’s still today, Tom, Cork said.

    My name’s Waubishash.

    Each of the Red Boyz, on joining the gang, took the name of an Ojibwe war chief.

    Let him in. The order was delivered from behind Blessing, from inside the house.

    Blessing stepped back and Cork walked in.

    Alexander Kingbird stood on the far side of his living room. Thank you for coming.

    He was twenty-five, by most standards still a young man, but his eyes weren’t young at all. They were as brown as rich earth and, like earth, they were old. He wore his hair in two long braids tied at the end with strips of rawhide, each hung with an owl feather. A white scar ran from the corner of his right eye to the lobe of his ear. Cork had heard it happened in a knife fight while he was a guest of the California penal system.

    Kingbird glanced at Blessing. You can go.

    Blessing shook his head. Until this is over, you shouldn’t be alone.

    Are you planning to shoot me, Mr. O’Connor?

    I hadn’t thought of it, but I may be the only guy in this county who hasn’t.

    Kingbird smiled. I’ll be fine, Waubishash. Go on.

    Blessing hesitated. Maybe he was working on an argument; if so, he couldn’t quite put it together. He finally nodded, turned, and left. A minute later, Cork heard the Silverado’s big engine turn over, followed by the sound of the tires on gravel. Everything got quiet then, except for a baby cooing in a back room and the low, loving murmur of a woman in response.

    Mind taking your shoes off? Kingbird said. New carpet and Rayette’s kind of particular about keeping it clean.

    No problem. Cork slipped his Salomons off and set them beside a pair of Red Wing boots and a pair of women’s Skechers, which were on a mat next to the door.

    Sit down, Kingbird said.

    Cork took a comfortable-looking easy chair upholstered in dark green. Kingbird sat on the sofa.

    You know why you’re here? he said to Cork.

    Instead of twenty questions, why don’t you just tell me.

    Buck Reinhardt wants me dead.

    You blame him?

    I’m not responsible for his daughter dying.

    No, but you’re hiding the man who is.

    And you know this how?

    Popular speculation. And he’s one of the Red Boyz.

    I want to talk to Reinhardt.

    Why?

    Kingbird sat tall. He wore a green T-shirt, military issue it looked like. On his forearm was a tattoo. A bulldog—the Marine Corps devil dog—with USMC below.

    I have a daughter of my own, he said. His eyes moved a hair to the right, in the direction from which the cooing had come. I understand how he feels.

    I don’t think you do. Your daughter is still alive.

    My daughter will also never use drugs.

    In that, I wish you luck.

    Reinhardt and some of his men threatened one of my Red Boyz yesterday. He needs to understand that anything he does—to me or any of the Red Boyz—will be answered in kind. I’ve seen wars, O’Connor. It’s easier to stop them before they get started.

    Then give him what he wants. Give him the man responsible for his daughter’s death. Give him Lonnie Thunder.

    The suggestion seemed to have no effect on Kingbird. Will you arrange a meeting?

    Why me?

    Because you’re not just another white man. You’ve got some Ojibwe blood in your veins. Also, you used to be sheriff around here and I figure that gives you a certain standing. And— he held up a card, one of the business cards Cork routinely tacked to bulletin boards around Aurora —it’s how you earn your living.

    How do I know, and how can Buck be sure, that you won’t just shoot him as soon as he shows up?

    Let him name the place and the time. You’ll be there to observe and to maintain the peace.

    Five hundred dollars isn’t nearly enough to get me to step between blazing guns.

    I’ll be unarmed. You make sure Reinhardt is, too. And the five hundred dollars is a retainer. When this meeting is done, you’ll have another five hundred.

    Rayette Kingbird strolled into the room carrying her child. Misty had been born six months earlier. When Alexander Kingbird looked at his wife and his daughter, his face softened.

    Cork stood up. Evening, Rayette.

    Cork.

    Bedtime for Misty?

    She smiled. She was full-blood Ojibwe. Her life before Kingbird had been hard. Abandoned by her mother and raised by her grandparents, she’d been into every kind of trouble imaginable. When Cork was sheriff of Tamarack County, he’d picked her up a few times, juvenile offenses. She’d skipped childhood through no fault of her own and he’d thought that any youth she might have had had been squeezed out long ago. Then she met Kingbird and married him and things changed. She looked young and she looked happy.

    Past bedtime, she said. She wants a kiss from her daddy.

    Rayette held the baby out and Kingbird took his daughter. He nuzzled her neck. She gurgled. He kissed her forehead. She squirmed. Night, little turtle, he said. He handed her back to his wife.

    Rayette left with the child. Kingbird looked after them a moment, then turned to Cork.

    We’ve named her Misty, but her real name is Tomorrow. Every child’s name is Tomorrow. You, me, Buck Reinhardt, we’re Yesterday. Kristi Reinhardt shouldn’t have died. No child’s life should be cut short of tomorrow.

    Nice sentiment, Alex, but what are you going to offer Buck? What do I tell him that will make him agree to meet you?

    He ignored the fact that Cork had used his given name, not the one he’d taken as a member of the Red Boyz. He said, Tell him he will have justice. Tell him I give my word.

    TWO

    Buck Reinhardt was a son of a bitch and he’d be the first to tell you so. He could be mean, selfish, bullying, insensitive, and offensive, and grin at you the whole while. It was nothing personal; he was that way with everyone. Everyone except his daughter Kristi. Her he’d done his best to spoil rotten.

    Kristi was the only child born from Buck’s second marriage. His first wife was dead and the children from that marriage were all adults. Most of them had fled to the four winds to escape their father. With Kristi, it seemed that Buck Reinhardt was determined not to make the same mistakes he’d made before. He went on making mistakes; they were just different ones.

    Reinhardt built a place on Skinner Lake five miles west of Aurora, where he had the area pretty much to himself. There was public access on the far side, but it wasn’t often used because the lake was shallow and if you were a fisherman looking for the big ones, you wouldn’t find them in Skinner.

    Cork turned onto the narrow gravel road that skirted the lake and wove his way through a fine stand of sugar maples that Reinhardt tapped each year. The man may have been a bona fide bastard, but he boiled down a great maple syrup, which he gave away in small bottles as gifts at Christmas. Cork could see the lights of the house through the trees and again where they reflected off the black water of the lake. It was a big, sprawling place, begun small and added onto over several decades as Reinhardt’s growing fortune allowed. He’d done all the work himself; the house ended up as quirky as the man whose mind had conceived it. There was no eye to a unifying design. Buck Reinhardt built whatever suited his fancy at the moment he picked up saw and hammer. It had started as a one-bedroom cabin, but over the years had grown into a multitude of additions put together side by side or on top of one another. In the end, it resembled nothing quite so much as the random construction a child might create with a handful of building blocks. It wasn’t ugly exactly. It was certainly unusual, and very big, especially now that Buck and Elise, his second wife, lived there alone.

    Cork parked in the drive and climbed the steps of the front porch, which overlooked the lake. The porch light was on. It was early May, too soon for moths. Another three or four weeks and they’d be swarming around the light. He knocked. Almost immediately the door opened.

    Elise Reinhardt was younger than Cork by several years, early forties somewhere. Reinhardt had met her while she was carting cocktails in the bar of a four-star resort near Grand Rapids. Shortly after that, the first Mrs. Reinhardt moved out and six months later was dead of pancreatic cancer. Within a year, Buck had married again.

    Elise Reinhardt was a strong woman. Any woman who’d marry an old piece of tough leather like Buck Reinhardt had to be. She was an attractive, blond, blue-eyed, big-boned Swede whose maiden name was Lindstrom. Although she was no longer a young woman, she kept herself in shape and knew how to look good. Men in Aurora noticed. Reinhardt liked that about his wife, liked that men looked at her. He often said as much. Said, too, that he’d kill her if he ever caught her looking back, but only said that part after he’d had too many boilermakers.

    When she opened the door, she wasn’t at all the woman who’d catch a man’s eye. Her own eyes were tired and puffy, her face plain, her skin sallow, her lips set in a snarl. She was a woman in mourning and she wore her grief with an awful fury.

    What? she said.

    Sorry to bother you, Elise. I’m looking for Buck.

    Look somewhere else. He’s not here.

    Any idea where I might find him?

    Like I could give a good goddamn. She took a couple of seconds and pulled herself together. Try the Buzz Saw. He’s probably getting shit faced with the boys. He does that a lot these days.

    The truth was that Buck had always done that a lot. Reinhardt owned a tree-trimming business. He’d secured a number of lucrative contracts with power and telephone companies to keep the lines clear of limbs, and he had a dozen crews operating throughout the North Country. He didn’t pay all that much, but in an area where the iron mines had mostly closed and logging wasn’t what it used to be, Reinhardt was a decent employer. If you worked for Buck, you never missed a paycheck, never got called on the carpet for a sexist or racist slur, and never, when you went drinking with him, paid for your own booze.

    Thanks. If I miss him, mind telling him I want to talk? It’s important.

    What about? Elise said.

    Cork couldn’t see any reason to hold back. Alex Kingbird wants to meet with him.

    Elise looked dumbfounded. What could he possibly have to say to my husband?

    He claims he has something to offer Buck.

    Yeah, what? His heart at the end of a sharp stick?

    I think it would be a good idea for your husband to hear him out.

    You’d have to hog-tie Buck to get him in the same room with Kingbird.

    Tell him I’ll drop by again after church tomorrow morning.

    Buck doesn’t go to church anymore.

    I do. Round noon okay?

    Her lips went tight and she stared at him. Finally she said, I’ll tell him.

    Elise, I’m sorry about Kristi.

    She nailed him with her ice blue eyes. No, deep inside you’re just so damn happy it wasn’t your daughter.

    He wasn’t going to argue the point. In a way, she was right.

    I’ll see Buck tomorrow.

    Lucky fucking you, she said and slammed the door.

    THREE

    The Buzz Saw stood along Highway 2, a few miles south of Aurora in a little unincorporated municipality called Durham. There was a big neon sign on the roof that appeared to spin like a ripsaw blade. The parking lot was less than half full when Cork pulled in. He didn’t see Reinhardt’s truck, which was hard to miss because of the rack of floodlights mounted on the cab. Buck claimed he needed the lights for whenever the tree trimming went late and things got dark. Most people suspected the real reason was that Reinhardt shined deer. On the door on either side of the cab was a big image of a green tree with REINHARDT TREE TRIMMING printed boldly in black below.

    It was Saturday night, but things at the Buzz Saw weren’t buzzing. That was because it was early May, still several weeks away from the onslaught of summer tourists. A few tables were full, but mostly the customers had scattered themselves around the big barroom in singles or pairs. When they weren’t talking, they were listening to Mitch Sokol and the Stoned Rangers belt out an ear-splitting mix of electric bluegrass and country rock. Ropes of blue cigarette smoke coiled up everywhere, and the air was a choking mix of that, the odor of spilled beer, and the aroma of deep fry.

    Cork stood just inside the front door for a minute, looking the place over. He saw a lot of folks he knew, but he didn’t see Buck Reinhardt or anyone who worked for the man. He shook a few hands as he made his way to the bar, where Seneca Peterson was tending that night. She was midtwenties, statuesque, sported a silver stud in one nostril and a ring through her lower lip, and had close-cropped hair that was a striking mix of jet black and cotton candy pink. Cork had known her since she was a baby, when the only pink on her was the natural tone of her skin. She’d been baptized at St. Agnes, made her First Communion there, had sung in the choir, and even once played Mary in the yearly Christmas pageant. Now she was tending bar, with a stud in her nose and a tattoo crawling up the back of her neck like a green spider.

    Hey, Sen, Cork shouted above Sokol and the Rangers.

    She stepped up and wiped the bar in front of him. What’ll you have, hon?

    Leinenkugel’s Dark.

    One Leinie’s coming up.

    She brought him the draw.

    Seen Buck Reinhardt tonight? he asked.

    Yeah. Left a while ago. Pissed.

    Why?

    I cut him off.

    He’d had too many?

    She shook her head. Mostly he was shooting his mouth off. You know Buck.

    What was his gripe?

    About what you’d expect given what happened to Kristi. Lot of talk about f’ing Indians.

    Red Boyz?

    That, sure. But f’ing Indians in general. A lot of my customers have some Ojibwe blood in them. I don’t need Buck Reinhardt getting everyone riled up.

    He left easy?

    I’d say so.

    Doesn’t sound like Buck.

    The Green Giant and Turner escorted him out. She was talking about Derek Green, the bouncer at the door, and the bar manager, both more gorilla than man.

    Was he alone?

    Yeah.

    Drunk would you say?

    I’ve seen him way worse. Mostly he was—she thought a moment and scratched at the stud in her nose—belligerent. Hell, who can blame him? But I told him he had to do his drinking and his bitching somewhere else.

    Any idea where he might have headed?

    If he was going in the general direction of home, the next logical stop would be Tanner’s on the Lake.

    He left her a five as a tip—he liked the idea that she’d kicked Reinhardt out for badmouthing the Ojibwe—and headed to Tanner’s. Reinhardt wasn’t there either and hadn’t been. Cork tried the Silver Horse, the Chippewa Grand Casino bar, and finally the bar at the Four Seasons, all with the same result. It was a quarter of eleven by then. He didn’t want to call Reinhardt’s house and risk disturbing Elise. He stood on the empty deck in back of the Four Seasons, looking at the spray of the Milky Way above Iron Lake. The temperature was in the low fifties, not bad for that time of year. He had on a light jacket but a good flannel shirt would have done as well. Up the shoreline, the lights of Aurora were like stars fallen to earth. The night was still and quiet. It would have been a pleasure to stand there awhile longer taking in the stillness, the stars, the air that smelled of apple-wood smoke from the fireplace in the Four Seasons’s lounge. He decided to call it a night and head home. He would hit Reinhardt’s place first thing after Mass in the morning. That would give Buck a chance to recover a little if he was hungover. He was a son of a bitch sober. Hungover, he just might get it in his head to take a chainsaw to Cork.

    Corcoran O’Connor lived in an old two-story frame house on an old residential street in Aurora called Gooseberry Lane. Lights were still on downstairs when he parked in the drive. Inside, he found his wife, Jo, on the sofa watching a video. Nine-year-old Stevie was asleep with his feet on his mother’s lap. Jo didn’t get up when Cork came in, but Trixie, the family mutt, jumped up from where she’d been lying and came bounding toward him with her tail wagging a blue streak.

    Nice someone’s glad to see me, Cork said. He patted Trixie and kissed the top of Jo’s head. What are you watching?

    "The last few minutes of Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein. Cork had introduced his son to the old comic duo, and Stevie loved them, though Jo wasn’t a particular fan. Took you a long time. How’d it go with Alex Kingbird?"

    Let’s talk in the kitchen.

    She gently maneuvered herself from under her son and left him sleeping soundly on the sofa. In the kitchen, she plucked a couple of chocolate chip cookies from the jar on the counter, gave one to Cork, and they sat down at the table.

    So tell me, she said.

    He wants to meet with Buck Reinhardt.

    Whatever for?

    To avert a war, he says. He thinks the shooting’s about to begin.

    I wouldn’t put it past Buck to haul out the firepower. What’s Kingbird offering to entice him to a meeting?

    Justice.

    What’s that mean?

    I don’t know. He wouldn’t say.

    Justice. She frowned, bit into her cookie, and looked thoughtful.

    Kristi Reinhardt had been eighteen when she died. She’d been one of those girls life had drenched in promise. A stunning beauty with hair the color of dark honey. Smart, athletic, a talented swimmer and diver. She was also reckless and a thrill seeker, traits she got from Buck. She had a fondness for motorcycles and for the kind of guys who rode them. It was one of those guys, a biker named Aaron Crunch Bergman, who’d introduced her to meth. When it became clear she had a drug problem, Buck and Elise sent her to Hazelden, the renowned treatment facility near the Twin Cities. She came home clean, but within a couple of months of returning to Aurora, Kristi died while under the influence of the drug. It had happened during a late-night party at the park above Mercy Falls. According to witnesses—other kids present—she’d poised herself at the lip of the rocky ledge on top of the falls, as if she was preparing to dive in one of her competitions. No one thought she’d do it. It was never clear whether she’d fallen or had actually dived. She hit the pool at the bottom of the falls headfirst. The pool was shallow. She smashed her skull on a rock two feet below the surface and died instantly.

    In his statement to sheriff’s investigators, Eric Neiburg, one of the kids at the party, said that he’d seen Kristi smoking ice: crystal meth. She’d told him that she got it from an Indian—Lonnie Thunder—in exchange for oral sex. When sheriff’s deputies executed a search warrant for the trailer on the reservation where Thunder lived, they found meth and they found photographs of Kristi Reinhardt that would make any parent’s blood run cold. They also found photographs and videos that Thunder had made of Ojibwe girls, some of them minors. They didn’t find Thunder. He’d vanished. The general speculation was that he was hiding somewhere on the reservation, protected by the Red Boyz. Buck Reinhardt had made it clear that he was holding Alex Kingbird personally responsible.

    You don’t think he’s going to turn Lonnie Thunder over to Buck? Jo asked.

    So Buck can skin him alive? I don’t think so.

    Will Buck agree to meet?

    Cork finished his cookie. Want some milk?

    No, thanks.

    He got a tumbler from the cupboard, went to the refrigerator, and pulled out a half-gallon carton of Land O’ Lakes 2 percent. I tried to track him down. Hit half a dozen bars, no luck.

    Ah, that’s why you’re so late and smell like an ashtray.

    He put the milk back in the fridge and sat down again. Where’s Annie?

    She went to the movies with Cara Haines.

    Cork gulped his milk. I’m bushed.

    What about Buck?

    He’s a lot older than me and drunk. I’ll bet he’s bushed, too.

    I mean when will you talk to him?

    Tomorrow after church. Figure I’ll catch him while he’s still a little groggy. That way if he tries to shoot me, his aim’ll be off.

    She looked troubled and reached across the table and put her hand over his. I don’t like the idea of you in the middle of this, sweetheart. Buck Reinhardt has always been a little crazy. Who knows what losing Kristi could drive him to do? And if Alex Kingbird is really dealing drugs, god, I don’t want you anywhere near them when they meet.

    Kingbird gave his word to come unarmed. I’ll work the same promise out of Buck or it won’t happen.

    His word? You’d take his word? And Buck’s?

    Look, I’ll figure something out, Jo. He eased his hand free.

    She sat back, unhappy. This is serious, Cork.

    I know, believe me. But I think Kingbird’s right. Unless somebody does something, all hell could break loose around here. He’s trying to do something and he’s asked me to help. What can I say?

    Are you getting paid for this?

    Five Franklins up front and another five when the meeting goes down.

    She drilled him with her cold blue eyes. What kind of casket can I possibly get with that?

    FOUR

    Lucinda Kingbird was happy and that made her afraid. Though she had struggled all her life, all forty-four years, in the pursuit of real happiness, it had eluded her. So many people seemed happy that Lucinda had to accept on faith that it was a true thing. In a way, it was like the story of the Blessed Virgin and the conception of Jesus: illogical, irrational, a circumstance she had never experienced—never would experience—yet a whole world, a whole history of people, most far smarter than she, had believed and defended it, so how could it not be true? Happiness for her had always been a question of faith, not experience.

    Lately, however, miraculously, she’d been happy. But having discovered happiness, she was terrified that it might be snatched from her.

    That Sunday morning as she drove up the eastern shoreline of Iron Lake, all around her shafts of sunlight shot through the pines like gold arrows from heaven. She was a small, pretty woman with dark eyes and the light tan skin of a Latina. Her hair, long and black, still showed no hint of gray. She sang softly to herself, an old song from her childhood, one that her grandmother had crooned to her.

    "‘Duérmete mi niño.

    Duérmete solito.

    Qué cuando te despiertes,

    Te daré atolito.’"

    Until recently, she’d forgotten the sweet little lullaby. Now she often sang it to her granddaughter as she held the baby in her arms and felt, deep in her heart, a warmth she knew must be happiness.

    As soon as she crossed onto the reservation, she took Pike Road east and followed it until she came to the gravel lane that cut off to the right through a stand of red pines that hid the house of her son Alejandro. She parked near the front door and waited. She was expected. Every Sunday morning, she drove from Aurora to pick up her daughter-in-law and her granddaughter and take them with her to Mass at St. Agnes.

    She genuinely liked her daughter-in-law. Rayette was a smart cookie, tough, devoted to her husband and her child. Rayette often told Lucinda how much she appreciated her help with the baby. She seemed to enjoy as much as Lucinda did the Sunday drives to St. Agnes. Much of the time on the way there and back, they talked family, talked motherhood, even talked sometimes about deep things, things like God, which Lucinda never discussed with anyone else. She thought of her daughter-in-law as a friend and felt blessed.

    There was so much now that made her happy.

    The front door didn’t open, and Rayette didn’t appear with Misty in the car-seat carrier. Running late, Lucinda decided. With a baby, it was understandable. She got out, went to the door, and rang the bell. From inside came the sound of voices and the baby’s incessant crying.

    Pobrecita, thought Lucinda. Poor little one.

    She rang the bell again, then knocked long and hard to be heard above the baby’s wail. Finally she tried the knob. The door was locked, but she

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